


A Regular Kodak Moment

by awed_frog



Category: White Collar
Genre: Accidental Sex, Also a little shit, Elizabeth remains oblivious, F/M, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I just miss them okay?, Jazz Music, M/M, Mild Smut, Missing Scene, Neal is a sweetheart, POV Neal Caffrey, POV Peter Burke, Peter is Not Impressed, Porn with Feelings, Restraints, The Author Regrets Nothing, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, anyway did I mention I love them, because she's an adult and has things to do, do I need my own, some happy and self-indulgent nonsense, why are all the Neal tags so weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: Neal breaks into Peter and Elizabeth's house (again), and gets more than he bargained for.





	1. Peter

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a quote from episode S01E10, _Vital Signs_ , which is one of my very favourite for obvious reasons.

“What are you going to do, cuff me?” Neal asks, and that’s the exact moment Peter decides that _yes_ , goddammit, he _will_ cuff him, and let’s see the guy talk his way out of this one.

“You trespassed into my house,” he says, in irritation. “This is what, the second time?”

“Third,” Neal says, almost cheerfully, and Peter makes a low sound of disgust as he walks to the safe, “but _technically_ -”

“No.”

“But -”

“I don’t care. Look away.”

“Oh, come _on_.”

“Look. _Away_.”

“Peter, I know your passwords and codes, okay? We’re _friends_.”

For _God_ ’s sake - how could he _ever_ think this man was charming, or funny, or even fit to walk around in the human world? Why did he volunteer to be saddled with this - with this -

“ _Neal_ -”

“Those earrings are gorgeous, by the way,” Neal adds from behind him, and Peter gives up, opens the safe - pushes the pouch containing Elizabeth’s ruby earrings to one side, gets to what he privately thinks of as his ‘zombie apocalypse survival bag’.

(Elizabeth had mocked him for it, of course she had, but Peter feels better in knowing it’s there. Not everything inside it deserves the top of the line safe they installed in the bedroom, it's true - a safe Neal has _not_ cracked, thank you very much, because it’s beyond even his skill and the earrings - that was a lucky guess, that’s all - but everything could come in useful in an emergency, and that’s why Peter keeps it there.

He just likes to be thorough.)

“Zip ties, Peter? Now, that’s just petty.”

And here it is - the moment Peter could let his anger go, and just grab Neal and - what?, acknowledge this is what Neal is like, too smart and too curious for his own damn good, and he didn’t mean anything by ferreting around in their house on a Saturday afternoon, or - 

Or -

This is ridiculous.

Peter should let it go.

“I’ve _seen_ you around cuffs. I’m not taking any chances,” he snaps, and Neal falls silent, sits back against the headboard, and raises his left arm up.

“I can get out of those too, you know,” he points out, blandly, and Peter does his best to ignore the sudden jolt of electricity deep in his belly - because Neal is movie gorgeous, that’s just what his face is like, and it’s unfair, really - Peter has seen him depressed and broken and unhappy - hell, he’s seen him in a goddamn prison cell - and the man always, _always_ manages to look - to look like -

“They’re military grade, and two of them should hold you just fine until the police gets here,” he answers, crossing the room, and now there’s finally an honest emotion on Neal’s face - a frown of surprise, of - of some _bring it on_ thing Peter trusts even less than Neal’s determinedly faked disinterest.

“You’re calling the _cops_ on me?” he frowns, offering his right arm before Peter can ask for it; and they both watch without speaking as the thin white plastic band snakes around his wrist, and next one of the headboard bars, before closing with a soft hiss.

 _There_ , Peter wants to say. Except it would be childish, of course.

There _what_?

Because Neal looks as bewildered as Peter feels. He’s - all wrong on their bed, on this expensive, cheerful bedspread Elizabeth chose - a creature all in black and white, a thing of sharp angles and well-defined lines and god _dammit_ , Peter’s looking at his face again, at those stupidly blue eyes, at the wave of his hair.

“Yes,” he says, bluntly. “Yes, I’m calling the cops on you.”

“ _Why_?”

 _Unbelievable_.

“Because actions have consequences, Neal.”

“I was just -”

“You were just _what_?” Peter asks, exasperated, and he doubles down on that irritation, finds it’s the only way to drown the flicker of - Christ above, is that _arousal_? - curling and uncurling in his stomach, making his head spin, blurring his focus on reality. “You knew perfectly well that I had a seminar today, that I was supposed to be out until eight, and you knew Elizabeth was working late. So what were you _just_ doing in my house, Neal? In my _bedroom_?”

Neal licks his lips. He seems honestly - surprised, _offended_ , almost, that Peter should be upset over such small a thing.

It should make Peter mad at him.

It doesn’t.

“I was just - looking around,” he says, blinking those blue eyes at Peter, and this time, Peter sees it, knows for sure that Neal _knows_ \- that Neal -

 _Get out_ , the rational part of his brain yells at him, as it does when he’s on a job and something’s not quite right. _Get out of here -_ now.

“Yeah? For what?”

A small pause, and this is a game for Neal, isn’t it? He could have given up the truth, or come up with a lie on the spot, and instead he’s taking his time, hesitating, so that Peter will have to wonder at what he says next, decide whether he’s being played or not, and what to do about it.

Cons and chess moves and double blinds - Neal simply can’t function without them, and Peter -

“You never did answer that briefs or boxer question. There’s a _lot_ of money running on it. I think Diana bet a clean hundred?”

_Goddammit, Neal._

( _He knows_ ; Peter thinks. _He_ knows.)

“What are you _talking_ about? This is not -” Neal tugs slightly at the zip tie around his right wrist, as if testing it, and Peter moves to the door, almost walks out. “You need to stop acting like -”

“I never expected you’d wear lingerie, Peter,” Neal says, from behind him, and Peter freezes, turns around.

“What did you say?”

“I found the black thong. Very classy.”

There’s something funny going on inside his stomach now, and Peter thinks he’s going to be sick. In fact, he _hopes_ he’ll be sick, so sick he’ll die, because then he won’t have to remember this conversation ever happened.

“That is Elizabeth’s,” he says after a full minute, and despite his best efforts, the words come out in a strangled whisper.

“Wrong size,” Neal answers, and Peter was expecting - mocking, or that cheerfulness that annoys him so much, but Neal - he’s serious now, focused and sharp, the way he gets when he’s trying to figure something out.

“It was a _gift_. You know I’m not good with those,” Peter forces out, and he tries not to think about it at all - about how Elizabeth had pushed the wrapped present across the table midway through their Valentine dinner, because sure, the thong _had_ been a gift, he’s not lying there, but what he’s hoping Neal won’t pick up on is that this is not - that Elizabeth had been the one to give him that, who’d laughed at his blush when he’d figured out what she wanted him to do, who’d -

“Oh. Apologies. My mistake.”

But, of course, Neal knows. He’s backtracking now, because he’s suddenly wondering, Peter can see that clear as day, just how much trouble he’s in here, and if he actually _did_ cross a line, and what happens if Peter decides that this time, this time he’s just _done_. 

And Peter _wants_ to feel done. He wants to report Neal, to have him reassigned, to never see him again. He wants to go back to the quiet life he was enjoying before he’d even heard of Neal Caffrey.

He _does_.

(Of course he does.

That’s the normal thing to want, so why wouldn't he -)

“I have a favor to call in with the 88th Precinct,” he hears himself say. “They can have someone down here in fifteen minutes.”

“Won’t they wonder why I’m handcuffed to your bed?”

“Let them wonder.”

“This is not standard procedure, you know,” Neal insists, and now he’s toeing off his expensive black shoes so they thud off the bed, his ankle monitor appearing and disappearing in Peter’s corner vision.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m giving them something to talk about.”

“Neal -”

“Being a cop is _boring_ , Peter.”

“No, it’s _not_.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve been a cop for about a couple of months, back in -” 

This, Peter thinks, almost fondly, this is Neal’s second big weakness: he’s so in love with his own cleverness, he doesn’t know when to shut up.

“Back when?” he asks, leaning against the door.

Neal blinks his blue eyes again, innocence literally flooding his entire face as he does so.

“I was joking,” he says, hurriedly. “Impersonating a cop is a federal crime, you think I’d ever do that? I have nothing but respect for you boys in blue, you know that.”

The house is completely silent around them. Elizabeth has her thing at the museum, won't be back until later, and their occasionally noisy neighbours are away for the weekend. This is something Peter generally enjoys - he was never one to work with music, or anything - but somehow this room is too small without - without the sounds of normal, decent, hardworking people doing things in the real world outside its walls (a world Peter is quickly losing his grip on). And okay, so the size of the room never bothered him before, but Peter suddenly wonders if he should open a window - turn the radio on - anything to break this uncomfortable _what’s next_ silence stretching and stretching between him and Neal like a solid, physical thing.

“No, I don’t. In fact, sometimes I think I don’t know _anything_ about you,” he says, more sharply than he’d intended, and Neal’s eyes get even bigger and rounder.

“You _hurt_ me, Peter,” he says, tugging on the restraints again.

( _You’re the only one._

_The only one what?_

_The only one I trust._ )

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m calling them now. I’m having you arrested.”

Still, he doesn’t move.

“I’ll tell everyone you mistreated me,” Neal says, slowly, with that same intent focus Peter knows so well, and his voice makes Peter’s mouth go dry. “That you did _things_ to me.”

“Nobody will believe you,” he answers, and he tries again to move away, to leave, finds he can’t.

“I’ll _make_ it believable. I could ruin this _Anne de Solene_ bedspread, and what would Elizabeth say then?”

“You could ruin - what are you _talking_ about?” Peter says, hoping it will come out as righteous anger or something, and Neal’s grin widens.

“I’m talking about semen, Peter. I’m talking about me coming all over this 300 dollar sheets. What do you think I’m talking about?” he says, and Jesus _Christ_.

(Neal winking at him, Neal smiling at him, Neal leaning on him when he doesn’t have to, Neal always, always standing too close, teasing and prodding and pawing at him like a cat would; Neal watching the world like a child does a playground, planning and plotting and never considering he could get hurt.

Just - Neal, Neil being himself the only way he knows how, and Peter sometimes thinks he's tired to be careful around him.) 

Peter’s brain flares up and short-circuits, leaving a heavy, acrid smell in his mouth that’s making it hard to breathe, to say anything remotely relevant.

“You’re tied up,” he says, stupidly, and Neal throws his head back.

“I don’t know why you keep underestimating me. You know me better than anyone else - it’s insulting, really.”

He settles back on the bed, then, closes his eyes, and as Peter watches on in something he’ll do his best to later recall as horror, his body tenses slightly, and Neal lets out the softest moan as his dick hardens, very visibly, under his perfectly cut trousers.

And that, of course, is when Elizabeth’s key turns in the front door - when she walks in, when she (probably) frowns at the jacket Peter left on the couch, and next -

“Peter? Are you home?” she calls, and Peter -

 _It’s not too late_ , someone inside his head says, broadcasting the same message in chunks of words and images, over and over again, like a lighthouse blinking at a sinking ship - because Peter could cut Neal’s ties, he’s got a small pocket knife on his keychain that would do the job just fine, and Neal could simply - sit up, put his shoes back on, and there would be no need -

( _He’s still hard, can you_ see that? __

__

__

__Watch _that. _)__

____

\- no need for Elizabeth to know anything, because nothing happened, because Neal is a child and an idiot and he doesn’t know, no _way_ he knows, Peter is just being paranoid and so okay, that’s his job and how he stays alive, but there’s no need to be paranoid over _this_ and _It’s not too late_ , the voice says as Elizabeth puts her purse down and shrugs her coat off (Peter hears the familiar sounds, and next the phonograph turning on, he recognizes the slight scratching of it even from upstairs), as Cole Porter starts singing, as Elizabeth finally starts to come upstairs, her steps a bit too fast, because she gets like this after a long day at work, impatient and fed up and _It’s not too late_ , but Peter can’t - he’s still on the threshold, rooted to the spot and absently watching Neal’s face, when Elizabeth walks up to him, hugs him from behind, buries her face in his shirt.

____

“I’m _never_ working with the Montaigne Gallery again,” she mumbles, her words puffs of warm hair against Peter’s back. “They were unhappy with everything - they objected even to the wine, can you believe that? The _wine_.”

____

Peter says nothing. He can’t.

____

“I spent _months_ on that, I can’t _believe_ they dared bringing it up again.”

____

“El -”

____

“What wine was that?” Neal suddenly asks, and whatever was still hanging by a thread inside Peter’s heart suddenly snaps. 

____

Elizabeth makes a curious sound and moves to one side, passing under Peter’s outstretched arm. Her eyes move across the room - they take in Neal’s dark grey jacket, draped carefully over a chair, and then his shoes, abandoned at the foot of the bed, before examining the man himself, still stretched out on her new bedspread and looking completely unconcerned - even genuinely _interested_ , Peter thinks, in discussing this wine issue so he and Elizabeth can have one of their usual, way too frequent and indisputably _boring_ conversations about soil and parasites (Peter normally gives up before they've even started, rolls their eyes at them both over his beer).

____

“Château Rayas, 1995,” she says, looking back at Peter, and Peter doesn’t know what to tell her, or how to begin explaining any of this.

____

“That is an _excellent_ choice,” Neals says. “Though I have to say, I’m partial to the 1990.”

____

“Yes, you would be.”

____

Elizabeth walks into the room, passes a hand on Neal’s jacket, gives a distracted pat to the curtains, as if checking for dust.

____

“I have to go back in forty-five minutes,” she says. “So, really, this is a wonderful surprise, Peter, but next time, please let me know beforehand? You know how this job is - you can never be sure of -”

____

Peter tunes her out, because she’s actually taking her shoes off now, and this is the moment to tell her nothing is actually happening, and those fantasies they discussed a couple of times in the dead of night are still just that, fantasies, that Neal doesn’t know about them and hasn’t agreed to anything - that he’s tied to their bed because he’s an idiot and a thief and that’s not changing any time soon - that it’s likely Peter isn’t actually ready to do something with another man, not even Neal, and it doesn’t matter if he’s losing sleep over Neal’s hair and Neal’s eyes and Neal’s stupid, irritating, unrelenting _flirting_ \- it doesn’t _matter_ , and if he doesn’t do something soon, Neal will know the truth -

____

(If he doesn’t already, that is.)

____

\- that Peter’s actually _thought_ about this, about the three of them, in bed; that Elizabeth was the one to bring it up, that her teasing had started the very first time she’d seen a candid shot of Neal, back when Peter was still chasing him and going out of his mind with annoyance and frustration and reluctant admiration. That Elizabeth had said, _Oh - I get why you want to find him so badly_ , and Peter had frowned and blushed and after that - after that -

____

It's not too late.

____

He can still _stop_ this.

____

In fact, he _must_ stop this, because if he doesn’t, Neal will laugh at them both, and Elizabeth will never forgive him, not ever, because whatever they’d imagined - those were _not_ \- it was just something people say in bed, for Chrissake, and there’s no way Neal -

____

“Neal, I assume Peter’s already discussed our boundaries with you? That he knows your safe word?” Elizabeth asks, and the entire world tilts out of focus as Neal blinks up at her, and then at Peter, because there’s no way to explain it away now, they’ll both have to stay here and take it as Neal starts laughing, and my _God_ , he will tell Mozzie, won’t he?, and Diana, and Jones, and all those other people who’re apparently already betting on what kind of underwear he’s got in his chest of drawers, and -

____

“Yes,” Neal says.

____

The word hits Peter like a physical blow. He watches on, in complete shock, as Neal stretches back on the bed, as he winks at Peter as soon as Elizabeth looks away; and in that moment, Peter wants very much to hit him.

____

Or kiss him.

____

One of the two, and god _dammit_ , he used to be better than this at telling those two feelings apart.

____


	2. Neal

“I’m sorry to be in a hurry,” Elizabeth says, and as Neal smiles up at her, he suddenly realizes this is _real_ \- she’s straddling him now, her weight a welcome distraction from the intangible, unsettling conversation he's just had with Peter, with the look in Peter's eyes - and the fact there's now a person, a woman, right here, on top of him - that's making him focus, forcing him to see what’s actually going on here, what he's apparently talked his way into. “Ugh, this is the last time I’m working with Pierre Fourcade - I don’t even know what I was - anyway, sorry.”

“No need.” God, she’s _stunning_. 

Neal had wondered, from time to time - he could see the way Peter looked at him when he thought he wasn’t looking, but Elizabeth - she’d always been the wild card in all this - a woman frighteningly good at hiding her emotions, and bold without being reckless.

And now, here she is, sitting on him, taking his tie off, unbuttoning his shirt.

(His monogrammed tie bar shines briefly between her fingers, then is discarded.)

Neal had never dared to even imagine this; it would have felt disloyal to Peter.

“Fourcade? The Belgian appraiser?” he says, lying perfectly still as Elizabeth passes a reverent hand on the exposed skin of his stomach. “He was implicated in some kind of scandal back in the ‘80s. Counterfeit francs, I think.”

“ _Was_ he? That sounds fun. You should look into it, Peter.”

“Yes, please do,” Neal adds, and this is the last thing he sees before Elizabeth pushes his shirt up his arms so it covers the upper half of his face: Peter, still standing by the door, his hands clenched by his sides, something that could be alarm or fear or hunger around the tense line of his mouth.

Their eyes meet briefly, and Neal grins cheerfully at him before his world goes soft and white.

“Hush now,” Elizabeth says from above him. “You know the rules: no looking, no talking.”

That seems harsh, but before Neal can even think to maybe reconsider this decision he’s stumbled into, her mouth is on his, and he forgets all about it, because _this_ \- it’s been a long time since he’s kissed anyone who truly _knows_ him, someone who cares about him, someone who can see beyond whatever disguise he’s donned for the day. And Elizabeth kisses like she talks, like she cooks, like she jokes - she’s straightforward but not curt, and she takes the time to learn his taste and smile against his lips as Neal instinctively tugs at his restraints, already starved for touch.

“Peter,” Elizabeth says, her mouth disappearing for a moment, and Neal hears the sound of her dress dropping to the floor, of her bra unclasping (two front clasps, and his brain immediately hopes for a Sarrieri, longs for the feel of lace against his skin), and then - then Peter moves, comes closer - Neal thinks he can feel him standing by the foot of the bed, but at that exact moment Elizabeth moves against his body, presses down, and he almost forgets all about it.

This is usually something he doesn’t like - to give up control so completely, to be blind and vowed to silence and completely still, and the few times he’s tried it, it had been about taking a risk, getting drunk on adrenaline and the possibility he could be seriously hurt, or fall into a trap, but this, right here - he knows Peter and Elizabeth, he cares deeply for both of them, and even more than that - he trusts them with his _life_. It’s a novel, intoxicating feeling, and Neal tries to sit up, to move closer to Elizabeth’s mouth, because he needs to kiss her again, he needs -

“Down,” she says, pushing against his chest, and he shudders.

Her hand moves curiously over his right nipple, and she pinches him - a sudden, expected touch, a bit too harsh, but not unwelcome. Neal breathes in sharply, and she laughs above him, grinds down against his fully hard cock before licking his other nipple and forcing a low moan out of him.

Not being able to see her is almost infuriating - Neal tries to focus, to picture her, to guess at what she would look like - she’s seen Elizabeth blushing with wine and happiness, and he thinks that would come close to what her face looks now - wonders just how far down that blush goes until he gets distracted by the slightest touch of Peter’s hand on his right foot.

It’s barely there, and it shouldn’t be enough to make him bite through his lips, because it’s not - it’s just a hand, really, solid and warm against the cotton of his sock, but it’s a color-heavy reminder of what they’re doing, and Neal blinks against the fabric of his shirt, wishes he could look at Peter, because this - this was _stupid_ of him, seizing the moment like that, assuming Peter wouldn’t mind, but Peter _does_ mind, Neal knows this without even seeing him, Peter wants the rules to be clear, wants to be absolutely _sure_ he’s playing by the book, and Neal has taken that choice away from him - he’s done it lightly, as he does everything else, but nonetheless - that’s what he’s done, and he’s suddenly soul in his mouth sorry for it.

 _It’s okay_ , he thinks, as loudly as he can. _I_ want _this. Please, I -_

The thought remains unfinished.

It’s been a very long time since Neal’s been with a man - so long that he can’t exactly put into words what it is he wants from Peter, so long that he hadn’t even remembered what that want feels like until this very moment, until Peter had walked closer and rubbed his thumb all over the arch of Neal’s socked foot.

And there’s no time to come up with a way to talk about it without talking about it, because Elizabeth’s turning around now, Neal clenches his hands as he feels her knees on either side of his chest, bracketing him, and the smell of her arousal tantalizingly close to his face - he almost reaches up before remembering she’s in charge here, and she will let him know when she’s ready for that.

(And that needs to be a _when_ , not an _if_ , because Neal - because he can't - he _needs_ -)

Peter moves away, and there are hands on the buttons of his pants now - Elizabeth’s hands, Neal thinks, absently tracking Peter’s steps around the room - she said she’d need to be back at the gallery in forty-five minutes, that leaves - Neal focuses, and it happens automatically, as it always does, this count of the number of Cole Porter songs that have passed since Elizabeth first walked in the house; music is something he’s good at, and more specifically measuring whatever time he has left in lyrics and sonatas, and that’s why he knows that whatever Elizabeth’s planning, she’ll need to hurry up if she wants to make it back before eight.

“Do it,” she says suddenly, sounding out of breath, and there is a rip and something falls on his face - Elizabeth’s panties, light and lacy and slightly wet.

Neal can’t help himself: he pokes his tongue out, licks the fabric, hears Peter let out some kind of sound above him - something that’s not quite a moan, but comes very, _very_ close.

Before Neal can even decide how to respond to that, Elizabeth finally touches him - she’s been careful until now, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants with her fingertips, avoiding the shape of his cock under the dark blue wool of his pants, sliding his briefs down his thighs, but now her hand closes around him and Neal gasps, almost drowns against the feather-light lace of the panties, the zip ties biting and snapping at his wrists in that pain that’s almost pleasure, and he’s so distracted by it he comes very close to missing the way Peter inhales sharply above him before getting the panties off his face and moving away again.

The music downstairs becomes a happier, faster rhythm as Elizabeth bends forward, her hair brushing against his thigh, and licks the head of his cock - she was not supposed to do this, Neal knows enough about her to guess she’d be careful with a partner she doesn’t know, and this - the fact she couldn’t help herself, that she just _had_ to taste him - this is more erotic than the touch itself, because despite the fact women are generally enthusiastic about getting into his bed, this is _different_ \- there was anticipation here, months of it, maybe years - he and Peter have been dancing around each other for a long time, and Elizabeth had been right there with them since the very beginning, Neal’s sure of it, sure that Peter wouldn’t have given her any specifics, not on a classified operation, but he would have complained to her about him, he would have listed in exasperation whatever he could disclose - Neal’s expensive tastes, Neal’s seemingly never-ending string of aliases, Neal’s inability to stay away from any glittering, shiny, luxurious -

Elizabeth closes her mouth on him, pokes her tongue in the slit, and Neal’s hands close into fists.

 _Fuck_.

As much as he enjoys not knowing what’ll happen next, he should have asked what they had in mind, what they were planning to do with him, because this - they’re going to kill him if they keep up with - with whatever this is.

(Something slow and sweet and almost disconnected from reality; something he can't see, can't touch, has absolutely no control over.)

“ _Please_ ,” he says, forgetting for a split second he’s not supposed to talk, and Elizabeth takes him in deeper, pats the inside of his thigh when he curses out loud, and then comes back up and shifts a bit, moves so that Neal can finally, _finally_ taste her too.

She is _perfection_ \- Neal wishes he could touch her and close his arms around her and make sure she stays right _here_ , one inch from his face, as he samples her every fold and nibble and licks up into her and drags pretty little sounds out of her - out of her and Peter, because Peter is cursing now - bits of words that could be blasphemy or prayers - and then there’s a condom on him, and Elizabeth mouths at his cock again, takes him in deep, her hands playing with the soft skin of his balls, teasing and careful and absolutely everything.

“I love you so _much_ ,” Peter says, from where he’s watching them both, and Neal dares to think, for a split second, that this is a plural and they’re not just friends sharing a bed, but something more - that he never imagined that warmth and gentleness Peter betrayed with his every movement, that Peter could actually, truly care for Neal as much as Neal does for him, that -

(Peter looking at him: worried, regretful, fond. Hungry?

Neal thinks he's caught that, once or twice; has certainly wished he was right.)

He’s so caught up in that high he misses the hurried, whispered conversation that comes next - he hears Peter refusing something, and Elizabeth dropping the matter - but he doesn’t know what’s going on, and when she moves away from him, he almost keens at the loss, her taste still all over his lips, sweet and salty and somehow completely, unmistakably Elizabeth.

“Are you okay?” she asks, from over her shoulder, and Neal licks that taste away, takes a deep, calming breath.

“I’m okay,” he says, because she was clearly talking to him, and this is not the exact truth, perhaps, but it seems impolite to say any less than that. “It's just - _God_.”

“I’m close,” she whispers in response, and that’s all the warning he gets before she sinks down on him, her hands balanced on his knees, her ass soft and perfect against his hip bones, and Neal arches up in response - without knowing if he’s allowed to, without really caring, he plants his feet on the bed so he can thrust up into her, seek out more warmth, more sensation - just _more_.

He’s so lost in the feeling that he doesn’t realize at first that Peter has now put his hands on his knees, on top of Elizabeth’s - he must be standing in front of her, Neal thinks, his thoughts and words disconnected and blurry, like a painting seen from too close, and the one part of his brain that’s still working understands what’s going on, comes up with lurid, moving sketches of Elizabeth taking her pleasure with both of them - of Peter who’s probably looking down now, his eyes half closed, his gaze moving from Elizabeth’s mouth to Neal’s own face, and Neal - Neal pokes his tongue out in invitation, because he’s stupid and rash and nothing has been discussed, which means Peter will do _nothing_ , but Neal wants him to know he’s thinking about it, about this, about Peter’s cock in his mouth, about giving himself up as completely as he knows how because Peter - Peter _caught_ him, Peter _saved_ him, from his life, from himself, and that means he can take whatever he _wants_ \- whatever -

Elizabeth moans, the sound muffled, almost secretive, and Neal feels her contract around him, feels her nails digging into his skin, and when Peter lets out a sharp gasp in response, Neal arches up one last time, his wrists tugging painfully against the restraints as he shudders and comes inside her.

(Fuck, it's -)

He’s barely aware of Elizabeth standing up, of someone taking the condom off him - he just stays there, breathing hard, half passed out, drowning and basking in pleasure - 

(In the certainty that he’s wanted and welcomed; that he hadn’t mistaken the meaning of Peter’s looks, of Elizabeth’s smiles; that if Peter had hunted him down with such dedication for three years, it wasn’t only because of his unerring sense of duty, but because he’d felt it too - a sense of familiarity, of recognition; an insisting, stubborn _what if_.)

“I need to run, I’m late,” Elizabeth suddenly says, from somewhere above him. “Thank you, Neal. That was beautiful.”

" _You_ 're beautiful." He smiles blindly up at her, but she doesn’t pull down his shirt; instead, she bends down, kisses his cheek, and walks away, leaving behind a soft cloud of Nahema. 

Neal catches a hint of rose and peaches as she disappears, feels the fresh, fruity notes mix with the earthlier tones of sex still lingering all over the room, and waits for Peter to untie him.

But Peter doesn’t.

He’s standing on the threshold of the room again, Neal is almost sure of it, and he’s probably looking at Neal, who’s still only half-dressed and boneless against the flowery bedspread.

“Still thinking of calling the cops on me?” he calls out weakly after a few seconds, when it becomes clear Peter’s not planning to move or say anything, possibly for the next decade or so.

And Peter laughs. A small, embarrassed sound.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” he says, and the thing is, he _feels_ sorry, in that earnest, rueful way only Peter can manage to pull off.

“About what? Threatening to have me arrested or trapping me into having sex with your wife?”

Another moment of silence.

“You decide.”

_Oh, Peter._

“You know you didn’t actually _trap_ me, do you?” Neal asks, and all of a sudden it seems a bit silly to still be here, tied to the bed, the fabric of his shirt pressing down against his eyes. “If hadn’t wanted to, I would have said no.”

“I know that,” Peter says, almost in protestation, but there’s a hint of relief in his voice, and Neal wants to shake his head at him.

“Do you mind?” he says instead, opening the palms of his hands, wondering how he’ll explain away the red marks to Mozzie later this evening.

(Because Mozzie will be at the house by now, of course he will, Saturday’s his bridge night with June and her friends, and he will notice the signs left by the restraints because he notices everything, and he will say something about it because he never knows when not to.

He will also read the truth on Peter’s face next time they see each other, Neal’s sure of it, which means he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to come up with some clever excuse.)

“Once I take them off,” Peter says above him, taking a careful step forward, “this is over. We don’t discuss it. We don’t - I can’t have you at the office looking at me like this ever happened, Neal. You understand that?”

“That's how the game works,” Neal says in agreement.

He hadn’t expected anything different, and truth be told, he’s already so comfortable around Peter he really doubts his behavior will change over the events of the past hour.

“There’s no game.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Neal -”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Neal says, and know Peter is looking at him, then away, because this is what he does when he thinks he's in the wrong.

“It’s not that I - it’s just - those are my colleagues.”

“I know that. It’s okay.”

Another pause.

“That was stupid of you,” Peter finally says, almost too quietly. “We should have been sure of what you wanted before - before trying this.”

“What I wanted?”

“Your boundaries,” Peter clarifies, sounding like he's saying the word out loud for the first time in his life, and Neal lets his head fall back, smiles at the ceiling.

“Peter, come on. You’re the pride and joy of the Bureau. Your idea of taking a risk is adding pickles to your deviled ham sandwiches. I doubt anything you could have come up with would have been too much for me.”

Peter makes a mild sound of disagreement or disgust, and Neal wishes, again, that he could see him.

“That’s why you’re always in trouble. Underestimating your opponents - that’s _dangerous_ , Neal.”

“I’m not always in trouble. And you’re not an opponent, anyway. You’re -” The sentence dies out; Neal doesn't know how to define this pull between them, but it's been a while since that has bothered him. “Anyway - I don’t want to rush you or anything, but I have dinner reservations at Nakazawa’s and I can’t be late. It’s very hard to get a table there, you know?”

Peter sighs, and Neal hears him rummage inside his pockets, the jingle of his keys, and next, the pocket knife snapping open. But still, Peter doesn’t cut him free. He sits down on the bed instead, one hand very close to Neal’s chest, his pinky not quite touching the naked skin.

“Once I let you out,” he says again, “this is over.”

“Yes, I -” _heard you the first time_ , Neal is about to say, but suddenly he gets it, suddenly it makes perfect sense to him - and so he turns his head instead - he looks up blindly to where Peter is, licks his lips, and waits.

And as the music changes again, Peter finally touches him - he cups his face, his thumb pressing down on his lower lip, and then he’s kissing him, soft at first, and then more hungry, more demanding, until Neal feels his cock stir again, because look at this stupid, _stupid_ man - this man who’s been dying to put his hands on him and kiss him for the past thirty minutes, and yet hasn’t, because Neal is even more stupid than he is and never gave him permission to.

Neal had always thought breaking the rules was the exciting part, but what Peter’s been teaching him for a while now is that having rules to break - maybe that was the point all along.

“I hope there’s a next time,” he whispers, against Peter’s lips, and Peter shakes his head and then smiles against his mouth.

“Your stupid _hair_ ,” he answers, his hand coming up to tug at it; and Neal doesn’t even wonder about the non sequitur, almost holds his breath as the blade of Peter’s knife passes over his skin, cuts through the tie, and severs the reality of this peculiar afternoon from the real reality of their shared lives.

(But not fully, not completely, not for good; and thank _God_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I hope you enjoyed this story - it was bittersweet to come back to these characters after all this time - I think I binged the entire show a couple of years ago and I couldn't think of anything else for months, but at the time I had zero confidence to give fanfiction a try, so. Anyway, here it is - my take on that missing scene I'm sure we all wanted.
> 
> (Also, I normally write for _Supernatural_ \- if feels-heavy Destiel fics are your thing, please stay and have a look around!)

**Author's Note:**

> The second part will probably be up tomorrow.


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